


you knew who I was with every step that I ran to you

by illuminatedcities



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, M/M, Mutual Pining, Service Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-03
Updated: 2015-12-03
Packaged: 2018-05-04 17:51:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5343026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illuminatedcities/pseuds/illuminatedcities
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Hmmh, blow jobs, Harold,“ John says, as if Harold is being especially dense. "You know. Giving head, sucking someone off.“ He considers for a moment. "Oral sex.“</p><p>"I understand what a blow job is, Mr. Reese,“ Harold says with a desperate edge to his voice. "Please go to sleep.“</p><p>In which John has trouble expressing how he feels. Harold can relate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you knew who I was with every step that I ran to you

**Author's Note:**

> When I first pitched this idea to theragnarokd, I refered to it as “John can't express his feelings except with blowjobs”. To be very honest, this is still the emotional core of the story, you have been warned.
> 
> Thanks to Dana & Sky for beta and IM squeeing, you guys are an inspiration. <3
> 
> Title from “Someone New” by Hozier. 
> 
> Posted for the POI Advent Calendar 2015.

It began, as these things so often do, with something completely innocent. John had made a habit of bringing Harold his morning cup of tea along with a pastry, sometimes the paper. 

In fact, John made a habit out of a lot of things: making sure that Harold had a water bottle on his desk at all times to keep hydrated, or spread an extra blanket over him when Harold spent the night on the crash bed. Then, after a while, John started to offer physical comforts, too: massaging the knots of tension out of Harold‘s back, for one.

"It‘s completely fine, Mr. Reese, I just need to lie down for a bit, maybe take an extra dose of painkillers tonight,” Harold said. He stared at the screen even though the throbbing in his head made it rather difficult to concentrate. 

"You‘re in pain, Harold,“ John said. He looked like he had a terrible toothache.

“I'm fine, Mr. Reese,” Harold said, assuming that would be the end of the discussion. 

In retrospect, Harold should have known that no good could come of this.

\--

The first time John makes a move is after he gets hit in the shoulder by a bullet. When Shaw brings him back from the field, he leans heavily against her, his white shirt soaked with blood. 

Harold stands up from his desk, clenching his hands uselessly as he watches her hustle him into the back room. “Stay back, Harold, nothing you can do,” Shaw calls over her shoulder, kicking the door behind them shut with a foot.

Harold would like to think that his ability to deal with life-threatening gunshot injuries has sadly improved during the last years, but she is right: he is of no use to either of them right now. 

It takes more than an hour until the door opens again. 

“You wanna come and see him?” She asks, drying her hands on a towel.  
When Harold comes in, John is curled up on the bed in the back. There's a blanket spread over him, but Harold can see the edges of the wound dressing peeking out from under it. His face looks pale, and there are dark shadows under his eyes like bruises. 

"Make sure that he doesn‘t try to walk around, he‘s gonna pull his stitches,“ she says. 

There is a pair of bloody surgical gloves in the trashcan that Harold tries very hard not to look at. 

Harold makes a face. "Should I just tie him to the bed, you think?“

She reaches down to pat Bear‘s head. "Kinky, Harold. Whatever works for you, just make sure he gets some rest. Oh, and he‘s pretty out of it, I dosed him up sky high on painkillers. He probably has an impressive tolerance for pain anyway, but I don't want to take any chances.”

Harold gives her a soft smile. It's her way of saying that she wants John to be okay. 

She gets her bag and jacket. “I gave him the good stuff, don‘t worry if he doesn‘t make sense for a while.“

"I will make sure he doesn‘t sign any legally binding documents or make important life decisions,“ Harold mutters, rubbing a hand over his face. He feels like he hasn‘t slept in months. 

"Yeah, well,“ Shaw says, giving him a critical look. "You might want to get a few hours of shut-eye yourself, Harold, you look like hell.“

"As much as I appreciate your brutal honesty, Miss Shaw, is there something else I need to know before I retire for the night?“

She crouches down to feed Bear an inappropriate number of doggie treats. "Nah, I guess you two will be okay. Call if you need me.“

Harold halfheartedly waves at her before retreating into the back room. There is an armchair next to the bed that looks comfortable, and a spare bed tucked against the wall. Harold sighs and lets himself sink into the chair, lacking the energy to do something about the bed. He's rather sure that he could sleep propped up against a wall if he had to. Carefully, he draws the covers back to check on John‘s injury.

John stirs, turning around. He blinks at Harold with astonished eyes, his pupils constricted to pinpoint size.

"Harold,“ he says. "You‘re here.“

"You were shot, Mr. Reese,“ Harold says. "Of course I‘m here.“ 

John frowns. "Mmh, don‘t remember,“ he says, before rubbing his cheek against Harold‘s palm.

Harold freezes. "You don‘t remember that you were shot in the shoulder,“ He says flatly. 

"How are you?“ John asks, oblivious. He gives Harold a considering look. "Does your back hurt?“

"My back always hurts,“ Harold says, impatient, and John‘s eyebrows shoot up. 

"I could help you,“ John says in a low, confidential tone.

Harold sighs. He checks that the dressing on the wound is still white and pristine and pulls the covers back over John‘s naked chest again. "You should go to sleep, Mr. Reese, you‘ve done plenty for one day.“

"Really,“ John says, nuzzling Harold‘s wrist. "What do you like, I can. Do you like blow jobs?“

Harold forgets how his eyelids work for a moment, then he blinks a few times rapidly to compensate. "I beg your unbelievable pardon?“ He says, pulling his wrist away where John has started to butt his head against it like a huge feline.

"Hmmh, blow jobs, Harold,“ John says, as if Harold is being especially dense. "You know. Giving head, sucking someone off.“ He considers for a moment. "Oral sex.“

"I understand what a blow job is, Mr. Reese,“ Harold says with a desperate edge to his voice. "Please go to sleep.“

John makes a face. "Who doesn‘t like blow jobs?“ He whispers. 

Harold tucks the blanket firmly around him. It‘s only a few minutes until John has closed his eyes and drifted off, drooling a little onto his pillow.

If Harold is spending the next hour willing the awkward, inappropriate erection to go away that he has been sporting ever since John has started to talk about oral sex, it‘s not like anyone will ever have to know. 

\--

The second time, John doesn‘t have the excuse of potent opioids clouding his judgment.

Harold sighs in frustration at a firewall that refuses to crumble under his hands, and in an instant, John is kneeling next to him, looking up at Harold. 

"Mr. Reese,“ Harold says, in warning, but John doesn‘t touch him, just fixes him with that intent gaze.

"You seem upset,“ John says. 

Harold huffs. "What gave me away?“

John‘s mouth twitches in amusement. "I could make you feel better,“ he says. His palm comes to rest against Harold‘s thigh through the fabric of his pants. "Any way you want. I‘ve been told I‘m pretty good with my hands.“ John digs in and Harold gasps involuntarily at the sudden pressure on his tense muscles. "Well, and with my mouth, too,“ he adds. Oh good lord.

John holds the pressure before letting go, and the relief is intense enough that Harold needs to suppress a groan. 

"Please get to your feet, Mr. Reese.“

John immediately takes his hand away and gets up, putting space between them. "Harold, I didn‘t mean to overstep,“ he says, a little too quickly. 

"You should go and complete your assignment, Mr. Reese,“ Harold says stiffly, looking at the screen. From the corner of his eye, he can see John‘s shoulders slumping.

"Yeah, sure, I‘m on it,“ John says, grabbing his coat and heading out of the door.

Harold waits for his footsteps to move down the stairs and echo down the entrance hall before he undoes the buttons on his pants with shaking hands and gets a firm grip on his dick. He lets himself sink down into his chair as much as his back will allow and starts stroking himself. The position isn‘t ideal and his lower back is protesting, but he doesn‘t care: he sneaks his free hand down to cup his balls, releasing a shaky breath.

He doesn‘t waste time with foreplay, just gets into a good, fast rhythm, his thumb and index finger forming a tight circle around his cock. He can‘t do much in the way of actual thrusting, but this is already enough: imagining John kneeling in front of him, mouth wrapped around Harold‘s erection, all eagerness and devotion. 

Harold whimpers when he feels himself getting close, his rhythm erratic, desperate. His grip is too tight, bordering on painful, but he‘s right there, pleasure coiling at the base of his spine. Harold imagines reaching out to touch John: run a hand through his hair, press a hand against his cheek, maybe. John would lean into it, Harold is sure, while still keeping Harold in the wet heat of his mouth, tease him with his tongue, hollow out his cheeks -- 

He shudders and comes, spilling over his hand, staining his suit. Harold keeps stroking himself through it, cherishing even the overstimulation on his too-sensitive skin, his hand dripping with come.

\--

The next time it happens, it‘s because Harold doesn‘t pay attention.

Chronic pain demands careful management, including but not limited to taking his medication before the pain starts to get unbearable. Harold works, and works, and forgets.

Once he realizes his mistake, his spine feels like somebody wrapped it in barbed wire. Harold gasps loudly, alarming Bear who gives a low, concerned whine. Bear noses at Harold‘s hand.

"It‘s alright,“ Harold mutters, patting Bear‘s head absently, even though it‘s very much not.

He keeps his pills in a bag in the tea kitchen, but there is no way he will get out of his chair to get there without fainting from pain first. To dull the pain, he would need the pills first: a regular Catch-22.

Harold tries to get out of the chair before groaning and letting himself sink back down, frustrated with himself for not keeping an emergency stash at his desk.

It has grown dark outside, the rest of the library is very quiet. Then Harold hears footsteps approaching, and Bear runs away from Harold's side, barking, signaling John‘s arrival.

Harold manages to sit up straight. There‘s a dull ache in his hip, his neck is knotted with tension. He types another line of code.

"I delivered Nicholls to the police,“ John says, squatting down to run his hands through Bear‘s fur. "I guess that‘s the end of his insurance fraud days.“

"Very well, Mr. Reese.“ Harold makes an attempt to straighten and winces, the pain bright and hot at the top of his spine. "That will be all for today.“

Harold keeps his eyes on the screen, but he can still see John approaching from the corner of his eye.

"Is everything alright, Harold?“ His voice is so soft that it makes something in Harold ache that has nothing to do with his injuries.

"I, ah.“ Harold wets his lips. The prospect of spending the night in his chair or trying to get up and failing spectacularly are equally unappealing. "I seem to have forgotten to take my last dose of pain medication,“ he says, humiliation like a sickening weight in his stomach.

"The bag on the third shelf from the right?“ John asks, already turning to leave.

When John comes back, he has brought along not only Harold‘s medication, but also a bottle of water and something wrapped in a soft white towel.

"Heat or cold, what works better?“ John asks. "I figured heat would be good for loosening up the tense muscles, but some people prefer a cold compress, --“

"Heat is perfectly fine,“ Harold says, pressing pills out of the silver blister and swallowing them quickly, chasing the taste out of his mouth with large gulps of water.

"Which spot is the worst?“ John asks. His eyes are wide and concerned. He carefully wraps the towel tighter around the heat pack, making sure it won‘t get too hot.

Harold feels his throat close up with gratitude and shame.

"Lower back,“ he whispers.

John gives him a quick smile, probably glad to be given something to do. "Can you move forward a little bit?“ he asks. "You can lean against me, if you want.“

Harold nods and leans forward against John‘s chest, lets John take some of his weight. John smells good: his training has taught him that artificial smells are a giveaway in the field, so Harold only finds traces of what is distinctly him, a tang of sweat from a long day‘s work over the warmth of his skin, the faint smell of soap. 

John slides the heat pack against his back, producing a blanket and wrapping it around Harold to keep the heat pack in place before helping him to sit up straight again.

Leaning against the warmth against his back is pure bliss, and Harold sighs a little. "Thank you, Mr. Reese.“

John is kneeling next to him, needlessly rearranging the blanket where it is already wrapped snugly around Harold.

"Something else?“ John asks. He looks up. "Something else I can do to help you?“

Harold swallows. "It will take a while for the medication to work, I have waited too long, now the effect will take its time.“ He carefully reaches out to touch John‘s temple, run his fingertips over a sharp cheekbone. John sighs, leaning into the touch.

John turns his head, his lips brushing Harold‘s palm. "Please let me do something,“ he says quietly. He is thrumming with energy underneath Harold‘s fingers.

For the first time Harold considers that maybe he is not the only one who needs relief.

"There‘s nothing you can do about the state of my back or hip,“ Harold says, words deliberate like a move in a game of chess. 

John looks up at him with wide eyes. "If your muscles have tensed up because of the pain, I could try to massage them, loosen them up.“

Harold lets his fingers slide over the curve of John‘s jaw, grazing the rough bit of stubble there. John‘s look is desperate, pleading. 

"I am more than aware of your worth, John, you don‘t have to prove to me that you‘re useful,“ Harold says, as reassuring as he knows how to be, wincing when a fresh spark of pain runs through his spine. 

John nuzzles his palm. "I didn‘t want to offend you, when I said that I could make you feel good, you know. I don‘t need anything else, I am happy like this.“

"Are you?“ Harold asks, doubtful. 

John‘s hand comes up to cover his. "Yes,“ he says. His skin against Harold‘s is very warm.

Harold‘s back hurts, and he wants so much, he wants everything. He‘s tired of denying himself, and the way John looks at him, waiting for something, anything. Like a dog at his feet, waiting for the smallest scrap from the table. The weight of it makes Harold feel sick. 

"What do you want, John?“ Harold asks, sliding his hand into John‘s hair. John‘s eyelids flutter.

"Wanna be useful,“ John mutters. "Wanna make you feel good.“

Harold takes a deep breath. “And I want to feel better,” he says, voice very small. “It seems like our desires may be overlapping in this particular situation.”

John looks at him as if Harold could break him in ways that 16 hours of torture never could. 

"There are hormones in the body that work as endogenous pain killers,“ Harold says. "Endorphins, for example, which is the reason why professional athletes,--“ he stops himself. He wants to put it into scientific terms, make it less about desire and more about the sizzling of hormones in the brain: do you know why people get shot and keep walking and do not feel a thing? The human brain is incredible like that, neurons buzzing and the rush of catecholamines, and pain is, in many ways, a fabrication of these complex structures, the neuronal equivalent of --

John still looks up at him expectantly.

"Sometimes an orgasm can help,“ Harold finally says, feeling his ears turn warm.

The smile on John‘s face is warm and kind. "Do you want me to?“ He asks eagerly. His hands are already back on Harold‘s thighs, warm and sure.

Harold nods, not trusting himself to speak. Yes. Yes.

John rubs his cheek over the wool of Harold‘s pants, nosing at his crotch. Harold inhales deeply, trying to concentrate on the image of John, the feeling of his warmth instead of the pain.

John runs his hand over Harold‘s soft cock through the fabric, lets his hands slide along the inseam of his pants. Harold is affected by the image of John on his knees, eager for him, but his body is still a little busy processing the insistent complaints of his nerve endings.

John takes his time, opening every button on Harold‘s pants with great care. Then he leans down to press his open mouth against the fabric of Harold‘s underwear, tracing the line of Harold‘s cock through the soft cotton.

Harold draws in a breath at the touch. John looks up at him, his eyes dark and hungry. "Alright?“ John asks. His voice is rough on the word.

Harold nods quickly. "It‘s good John, please. Go on.“

John gives him a beatific smile. He bends down again, this time taking Harold‘s cock out.

The first touch of skin on skin has Harold grab the armrests of his seat. The sudden movement makes the pain flare up in his spine and he gasps.

John is pushing himself up from his knees, one hand coming up to support Harold‘s neck, the other still curled loosely around his cock. Harold sighs and leans against him, his head resting against John‘s shoulder.

"Shhh, it‘s okay,“ John mumbles. He moves his hand, stroking Harold‘s half-hard cock, and Harold whimpers and buries his face against John‘s neck.

The position is awkward for John. Half standing up, his spine is bent at an awkward angle, but he still stays where he is, stroking the nape of Harold‘s neck and jerking his cock with the other hand.

Harold shudders. He is completely hard by now, aching for stimulation. "Your mouth, please,“ he says against the skin of John‘s throat.

He can feel the tremor running through John‘s body at his words.

John makes sure that Harold leans back, maneuvering him into a mostly comfortable position. Harold‘s back still thrums with pain, but it‘s more like background noise now, a white static floating in the back of his mind. His senses are flooded with John, his touch and smell, the gentle touch of his hands.

Once Harold is settled in, John gets down to his knees again. He places kisses along Harold‘s length, at the tip of his cock, just under the head, before running his tongue over the slit.

Harold is panting, helplessly aroused. John looks up at him with a soft smile before taking Harold‘s cock into his mouth, taking him in effortlessly.

If Harold had a shred of dignity left, he‘d probably try to keep quiet, but as it is he just doesn‘t care at all: he lets himself make the small, breathless noises that work their way out of his chest, from some place that has been quiet and dark for far too long.

John shifts until he is pressed up against Harold‘s leg, and now Harold can tell that John is hard, too, hips subtly sliding against Harold‘s shin, searching for friction.

John is no amateur: he swallows him down deeply without choking himself even once, pulls off to tease the glans, press his tongue along the underside. Soon, he is lapping up thick drops of precome that have gathered at the head of Harold‘s cock.

"John,“ Harold says, and it comes out wrecked, like a sob.

John looks up at him, then he pulls off, keeping up the rhythm with his hand. "Does this feel good?“ He asks, sounding genuinely worried. "Is there something else you like, I can,--“

"I have spent the last few minutes trying not to embarrass myself by coming the second you took me into your mouth,“ Harold says. John‘s hips jerk abruptly, humping his leg. "So yes, it feels very, very good.“

John looks a little bashful at that. "You can, you know. Come in my mouth. I don‘t mind.“

Harold closes his eyes, cursing softly. "Why would you say something like that,“ he mutters, feeling close enough that the light touch of John‘s hand on his cock might be enough to take him over the edge.

"Actually, I‘d like it,“ John says. His lips are red and swollen, and he looks up from under his absurdly long eyelashes like he has no idea what he‘s doing to Harold. Or maybe he does.

"It‘s okay, Harold,“ John says, running his thumb over the head of Harold‘s cock, sliding down to tease the frenulum. "I want to.“ With that, he leans down to take Harold‘s cock into his mouth again.

Harold grasps blindly for purchase, hands on John‘s shoulders, his soft hair. John moves his head up and down slowly, hypnotically, lips closed tightly around Harold‘s cock. "Oh, I‘m, I‘m going to,--“ Harold croaks and then he spills into the warmth of John‘s mouth, feels him swallow around him. 

John pulls off after he has swallowed it all, licking off stray drops of come before sitting back on his heels. He carefully tucks Harold‘s softening cock back into his pants, closes the buttons again. 

Harold‘s perception is a little foggy, but he expects John to get up and rinse his mouth, maybe drink a bit of water. Instead, John stays where he is, wiping his mouth with his hand, leaning against Harold‘s thigh with his eyes closed. Harold can see the outline of John‘s erection through his pants.

"John,“ Harold says, voice rough. 

John‘s eyes open instantly, and he runs his hands over Harold‘s thighs. "Do you need something?“ He asks. "Want me to warm up the heat pack again?“

"Unzip your pants,“ Harold says. His body feels warm and heavy, the pain merely an afterthought. 

John gives him a disbelieving stare. "You don‘t have to do this, Harold, you can barely move.“

"What makes you think that I will do anything to you, Mr. Reese?“ Harold says. His voice is a little wobbly, but he feels like he manages to convey the idea.

John‘s eyes widen. He hurries to get his pants open, hands clumsy on the zipper.

"I want to watch you touch yourself,“ Harold says, and John whines and gets his cock out, flushed and hard in his hands. The tip is wet with precome, and John‘s eyes turn heavy-lidded when he gets his hands on the heated skin.

"You look quite beautiful like this,“ Harold says. John‘s grip tightens around his cock. "Stroke yourself for me,“ Harold says. 

John moves his hand slowly, keeping his eyes fixed on Harold‘s. 

"Use one hand to cup your testicles,“ Harold says, and John whines and complies. 

John looks gorgeous, cheeks pink and lips swollen and wet, and Harold lets his gaze wander, takes all of him in. "Unbutton your shirt,“ Harold says.

John raises a shaking hand, undoing the row of buttons until his shirt falls open to reveal a stripe of smooth skin.

"Pinch your nipples,“ Harold says. He‘s spent from his orgasm, but the words still chase a pleasant shiver through him. 

John rubs a nipple between thumb and forefinger. He makes a soft little noise. His other hand is still stroking his cock.

Harold uses the opportunity to study John‘s technique, the grip of his hand, speed and pressure. He likes to understand how a system works, what its components are, how one can manipulate it for ideal results. 

"You offered to help me, why?“ Harold asks. 

John freezes. He looks like somebody just told him that there is the red laser target of a sniper rifle aimed at his back. "Wanted to make you better,“ John rasps. 

John gives his left nipple a final, hard pinch before sliding his hand back down, tugging at his balls. Stopping himself from finishing too soon, Harold assumes.

"Why?“ Harold asks, curious. He is aware that John might just as well ask why Harold took him up on his offer this time, asked for it, even. 

"You‘re my friend,“ John says.

Harold raises an eyebrow. "You always prove your friendship with sexual favors, Mr. Reese?“

John‘s eyes avoid his, his gaze flicking away. Harold swallows. That was a nerve he didn‘t intend to hit. "Tell me the reason,“ he says, more gently.

John presses a finger to the base of his cock, his hand barely moving. "I like it,“ he finally says. "I like knowing you‘re okay. I like... knowing that I can give you pleasure.“

"You can, you proved that rather impressively earlier.“

John blushes. The bashful expression on his face makes him look younger, somehow. Harold wonders if John needs to hear that he's been doing well more, if he isn't used to praise. 

"John, as much as I would detest taking advantage of you, I also wouldn‘t deprive you of something that you need.“ Harold watches John‘s hand on his cock speed up at his words, helplessly. "What do you need, John?“

John whines, his eyes fluttering shut, hips thrusting into his tight grip.

"Do you need to get on your knees for me? For me to order you to do it, maybe? Do you need me to touch you?“

Harold considers the loud whimper John makes agreement. "Do you need me to fuck you? Make you come until you think you can‘t possibly take any more?“

That does it: John thrusts up into his hand, moaning, and comes. It takes a long time until he stops shivering, his breath coming in rapid bursts. 

After, he rests his head against Harold's thigh again. 

"It's alright, John, it's fine,“ Harold says, and then keeps whispering reassurances, hoping that some of it will get through to him. John lets Harold stroke the vulnerable nape of his neck and gives himself over completely. When Harold looks down again, John is smiling. 

 

– FIN


End file.
